


Very Different People

by TheMuchTooMerryMaiden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, M/M, Past mentions of food/eating issues, Romance, Self Confidence Issues, Slow Burn, Will justify the rating eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden/pseuds/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had known about Lestrade for years but he hasn't <em>known</em> him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LydSqd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydSqd/gifts).



> Written for LydSqd, the successful bidder for my lot in the Rupert Graves Birthday Project Auction. The prompt I was given was:
> 
> Romantically Sweet  
> ?Smutty?  
> Happily Ever After
> 
> Also, I would like you to work the word 'squid' into a non-essential part of the story.
> 
> I hope to achieve all of these things before the end!

“It’s out of the question!” Sherlock snapped, “I couldn’t even think of it,”

Mycroft narrowly avoided pinching the bridge of his nose, this was, he judged no time to show weakness to his brother, it wasn’t like John was being any help, seated as he was with a mild smile on his face, apparently enjoying the conversation between the two brothers, a far too common experience as far as Mycroft was concerned. Mycroft decided to go for the simple approach,

“And why not?” he asked.

It was a technique with which he’d had some success with Sherlock, and it did to a limited extent take the wind out of his brother’s sails this time,

“Why not?” he replied, clearly thinking as quickly as he could, “Why not? Because I’m committed to making sure that Lestrade is well cared for after his recent unfortunate accident.”

Mycroft knew an urge to applaud both the quickness of thought and the blatant falseness of the reply but instead decided to continue on the same tack of taking Sherlock’s preposterous excuses seriously,

“What has befallen the good Inspector?” Mycroft asked, with a raised eyebrow, directing the question to John rather than to Sherlock. It took John a moment or two to react to the question and Mycroft could see him not directing a look at Sherlock before he spoke,

“There was an accident,” John began, “Lestrade was chasing after Sherlock, as one does, and there was a missing step that he didn’t know about and he broke his leg.”

Mycroft took a moment only to process this before he spoke,

“And somehow this means that Sherlock is ‘caring for’ Lestrade? A man whose first name I would hazard Sherlock still gets wrong more often than he gets it right?”

Mycroft could see that he’d hit a nerve with Sherlock and although no one in the world would have known it he was looking forward to Sherlock’s reply, knowing that his brother would chance it all on the turn of Lestrade’s name.

“Of course I know Greg’s first name,” he started and it was a brave try but even without the tension displayed by John, Mycroft would have been able to tell it was a guess from Sherlock’s own body language and the infinitesimal pause between ‘know’ and ‘Greg’

“Oh, well done, brother mine,” Mycroft replied, “What an excellent guess, I suppose you had to get it right eventually. Precisely what ‘care’ does Inspector Lestrade require?”

Mycroft was pleased to see that the question startled Sherlock and therefore he added a few watts to the intensity of his ‘I just want to help’ face while he waited for Sherlock to formulate an answer.

“Well,” Sherlock began, “obviously he can’t get around and cook for himself and,” again there was a pause and Mycroft knew that Sherlock was deciding how bad to make the whole thing seem, “and then there’s the personal care he needs,” Sherlock continued in much the same spirit as he might have said ‘checkmate’, well if he’d ever, yet contrived to beat Mycroft at Chess.

“That doesn’t seem to be a problem,” Mycroft replied with a polite smile, “I’m sure that while you’re taking care of this little difficulty for me, I can contrive to ensure that the Detective Inspector is … looked after.”

 

As he left 221B Baker Street, Mycroft already had his phone in his hand as the dark, discrete car purred up to the suspiciously clear kerb. He texted Anthea with the request that she schedule looking after Lestrade into her days for the next week. The reply came back very quickly, but then it always did, which wasn’t to say that the reply was what he expected:

Sorry, did you forget that you’d sent me to Inverness? – A

Even though there was no one to see him, Mycroft blushed scarlet cursing for the umpteenth time the effect that even a short conversation with Sherlock could have on him. The thing was, Sherlock would check and if he hadn’t done what he’d said then this would become yet another piece of ammunition that Sherlock would bring out when needed; Mycroft would still be hearing about it when the pair of them were in adjacent bath chairs in the nursing home. Anthea would have been an acceptable substitute Mycroft knew, but unfortunately he needed her in Inverness and that really left only himself.

 

When he reached the foyer of the block of flats where Lestrade lived (it had been the work of but a moment to discover an address for the Detective Inspector) Mycroft realised that he should have found out if Greg was expecting him, how often Sherlock (or more likely John) had been visiting him and a hundred and one other things. Too late now, he thought, and it took him a moment to mentally track down the reason why he thought the phrase in that particular accent, before squaring his shoulders, shifting the plastic shopping bag he was carrying into his other hand and moving towards the lift. 

Confronted with the door to Lestrade’s apartment Mycroft realised that he didn’t know whether to knock or not, he had no idea how mobile Lestrade was, although presumably he wasn’t that mobile or Sherlock would not have been feeling the need to look after the man. In the end after an embarrassing amount of time making his mind up he went for doing both things and knocked on the door a moment before opening it.

“Who’s that?” the voice came sharply from the room at the other end of the short hall a second before Mycroft saw Lestrade step into the doorway, “Oh,” Lestrade continued, “you’re Sherlock’s brother!” and then a beat later, “What’s happened to him?”

Mycroft was struck by the instant concern in Lestrade’s voice, struck and slightly envious of his brother’s ability to trigger that concerned response from his friends, it wasn’t a trick that Mycroft had ever managed himself,

“Nothing,” Mycroft said quickly wanting to put the DI out of his worry as soon as possible, “Sherlock merely asked me to pop in and check that you had everything you need. I gather he didn’t warn you that it would be me rather than him that would be visiting?”

“Visiting?” Lestrade replied and Mycroft knew with a certainty that this was the first that Lestrade knew about Sherlock and his visiting, and that all he had to do now was to find a graceful way to extract himself and begin to plan his revenge on his brother and Dr Watson, who surely knew.

“Yes,” he replied deciding that limited honesty was the best policy, “Sherlock asked me to check that you were … managing adequately, he’s gone out of town for a little while,”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, “Sherlock asked you to check up on me? Really? He must have been having a laugh!”

“So it would seem,” Mycroft replied hoping that he wasn’t blushing too much, “but as I can see that you are perfectly capable of managing without any assistance I will leave you.”

Mycroft was turning to go hand already reaching for his mobile phone (such a useful camouflage for so many things) when Lestrade spoke again,

“At least come in and let me make you a brew,”

Mycroft paused for less than a second trying to come up with an answer before Lestrade continued,

“Please? I haven’t spoken to anyone for about 48 hours and I’m getting a bit stir-crazy to be honest,”

Mycroft who was more than capable of staring down billionaire CEOs and the dictators of small countries did not expect to crumble under the entreaties of a Met DI but crumble he did,

“A cup of tea would be just the thing at the moment,” he said and allowed himself a small smile

 

Lestrade’s flat was not what Mycroft would have expected. It was almost minimalist, very little in the way of things, next to no clutter, it really looked like there was a place for everything and everything was in its place. All it really required to be in a lifestyle piece was a tasteful arrangement of dead twigs painted white and spot lit. Mycroft couldn’t shake a faint feeling of disappointment. When Lestrade came back in from what Mycroft assumed was the kitchen, two mugs in the hand that wasn’t dealing with a crutch, he spoke almost as though he’d been able to hear Mycroft’s thoughts,

“It’s not normally like this; you can take this,” he waved generally at the state of the room, “as an indication of my extreme boredom.” He paused and shrugged glancing around the room and looking less than happy about what he saw, “It needed a clear out.” 

The last words sounded just a little hollow to Mycroft, he recalled the incident at Sherlock and John’s Christmas ‘gathering’ and he surmised that the clearing out had been in the nature of getting rid of his ex’s belongings and taste,

“You seem to have done a good job,” Mycroft replied, dredging his mind for something to say, “Very Homes and Gardens,”

Precariously hanging on to the crutch, Lestrade dipped to his left to put the mugs down on the coffee table before straightening up and lurching back towards the kitchen,

“Really?” he asked, “not sure I like that as an idea, but I guess it will get back to more lived in once I’m back at work and not stuck here all day with next to nothing to do.”

When he came back from the kitchen he had most of a large packet of chocolate digestive biscuits in his free hand, still in their wrapper. Dark chocolate digestives, Mycroft noted approvingly even if he couldn’t quite approve of the manner of their service.

“How long will that be?” Mycroft asked him, as Lestrade dropped the biscuits to the table and then himself into the armchair to Mycroft’s right,

“I don’t really like to think about it, but about another six weeks unless you know of any super healers or anything,”

Mycroft smiled at that,

“Sorry, I’m afraid not, although if you want an entertaining few days ask Sherlock about alternative therapies. Or John for that matter,”

Lestrade smiled in return,

“Yes, I can imagine that would be fun. What should we tell them? That you persuaded me to take up homeopathy? That would be a fitting revenge, unless, you know he actually did die of apoplexy!”

Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh at the idea,

“I could say I’d got the idea from The Palace,” he said and then noticing the slight widening of Lestrade’s eyes, “the royals have long been in favour of homeopathy.”

“I didn’t know that,” Lestrade said and then after a pause, “we inhabit very different worlds, don’t we?”

There was almost a wistful tone in his voice that made Mycroft feel a slight discomfort that he was in no way used to,

“Not that different really,” he said, looking down at his mug of tea, “it’s more a matter of scale and location I would say.”

“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked and Mycroft tried not to analyse the feeling in his stomach at the curious expression on Lestrade’s face,

“Well,” he began, “both of us are in the business of keeping people safe. You started off in robbery, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade answered, “after my probation; I did my two years on the beat in Camden,”

“That’s an even better example,” Mycroft interrupted, “you walked the beat and very soon, because you were very good at your job,” here Lestrade attempted to interrupt but Mycroft just continued to talk over him, “because you were very good at your job you became a repository of knowledge, which youths were the most likely to have put a brick through Mrs Johnson’s window, where the laptop stolen last night was likely to have been pawned, who would give you information because it ‘wasn’t right to do that kind of thing’, and you used that information to keep people as safe as you could. I do the same, just on a bigger scale.”

Lestrade seemed to ponder this for a moment before he spoke,

“I suppose so,” he agreed, “but when you talk about the difference in scale it’s a pretty huge difference I would say, it’s like the opposite case of reductio ad absurdum,”

“Argumentum ad absurdum,” Mycroft replied, one part of his brain supplying the correct term while the greater part of his mind was busy being surprised that Lestrade knew the term and covering up that surprise, apparently, it turned out, unsuccessfully,

“Thought you were the only one who studied Latin?” Lestrade said with a grin, and Mycroft was instantly bristling – he hated being caught in a reaction that he was trying to hide – but quickly tamped it down; the man was right after all,

“It’s not the Latin so much as the logic that surprised me,” he admitted leaving the sentence hanging, an invitation for Lestrade to fill in some of the blanks,

“The Open University,” Greg supplied by way of explanation, “I did the Arts Foundation, that’s where the little bit of philosophy came from and A297 Introduction to Classical Latin among others– great fun. I suppose you did Latin from the age of seven and PPE at university?”

Mycroft nodded in response and then continued,

“It was rather expected of one,” which wasn’t quite true, Mummy would have preferred to home educate both of her sons, but that was another story,

“Did you never want to do the thing that wasn’t expected?” Lestrade asked, “You know, just to do something for the joy of it?”

The question was another surprise to Mycroft, and he realised unexpectedly that he was enjoying the unpredictability, it so seldom happened that a conversation did not go the way he expected. It didn’t however, make it any easier to answer the question. He thought for a moment,

“Not often,” he replied, “there are always so many things that require to be done, any ‘spontaneity’ would tend to get in the way of the work,”

“That’s one of the few things the two of you do have in common,” Lestrade said, interrupting, “your dedication to ‘the work’,”

A little twist of adrenaline and the tightening of his stomach muscles surprised him and it took him a moment to frame a reply to this,

“I’m not used to thinking we have a lot in common, apart from our intellect and taste in companions, and for both of those, mummy can be blamed,” he smiled as he said this but he was aware that it was a political smile. So apparently was Greg,

“It’s not like I’m saying you do have that much in common,” Greg said, with a brief smile of his own, “it’s just that really, when something has your focus then it really has your focus. Most of the time that’s work for both of you, yeah? But other times, with Sherlock, it can be a person or a thing.”

Greg stopped speaking,

“Yes,” Mycroft began, he insanely wanted to say that it could be a person for him too, but it was the work of less than a second to realise how stupid it would be to say anything of the sort and he cleared his throat, “Sherlock does have something of an obsessive streak with ‘his’ people. It’s what drove his few friends away, especially at university,”

“And what about you?” Lestrade sat forward as he spoke and fixed Mycroft with a look from under raised eyebrows.

Mycroft suddenly felt that he wasn’t liking the unexpectedness of this conversation after all,

“What about me? I am as you see me,”

“You know I’m not sure that’s true, but never mind.”

Mycroft felt the most perfect mixture of relief and disappointment that Lestrade seemed to be prepared to let what he could only think of as a line of questioning drop at that point and he scrambled for something to say,

“Did you finish your degree?” he asked,

“Not yet, but I intend to. I need sixty more points, just not sure what to do,”

“What sorts of things have you considered?”

“I don’t really know; it’s hard fitting it in really. I’ll have to do thirty points at a time I think, I couldn’t be sure I’d have the time to do the full sixty points at once, I already had to withdraw from a course last year when,” there was a pause which Mycroft filled in with ‘my wife finally went’ and then was unsure that’s what it was, before Lestrade continued, “things went tits up.”

“That’s one of the beauties of the Open University, isn’t it?” Mycroft said, mostly happy to be on more neutral, for him at least, subjects, “They are quite flexible about things?”

“Yep,” Lestrade agreed, “as long as you’re happy to keep paying the fees, they’ll keep letting you have another go more or less. Not that the fees aren’t considerable these days. So what would you have studied if PPE hadn’t been expected of you?” Lestrade asked,

Mycroft paused for a moment to think before he answered,

“Archaeology, I think,”

Lestrade looked at him through slightly narrowed eyes,

“Still uncovering truths but no one’s fate depends on it, mmmh, I can see the appeal of that and you’d still be able to make use of the Latin,”

“You’d be welcome to join me on my hypothetical digs,” Mycroft replied, “I could use an expert in medieval Latin to complement my classical Latin,”

“I think there’s a course on reading medieval Latin but not on the OU, it’s the same format as the course book from the course I did do, I’ve kept meaning to buy it, but never got round to it, hard to focus and concentrate when there aren’t deadlines and exams,”

This last was said with a self-deprecating grin and Mycroft wanted to say something reassuring but Lestrade continued speaking,

“So where would your digs be?” he asked, “Will we be in jungle gear excavating Aztec ziggurats or desert gear unearthing the Egyptians or in jumpers and waterproofs uncovering bog people in the cold and damp north?" 

“Personally,” Mycroft replied with a smile, “I would prefer the bog people, I’m sorry to say, I don’t do well in hot weather, unlike some people I could mention,”

Lestrade appeared to be trying not to look smug and failing significantly, the man had to be more than aware of how well his usual slight tan looked on him. Mycroft was sufficiently distracted by this that he almost missed what Lestrade was saying,

“I studied Tollund Man at school in history” he said, “we were given all the evidence and we had to draw conclusions and support them with the evidence, it was fascinating.”

“That’s not the way I was taught history,” Mycroft said, “It was very much the Kings of England and the key facts of their reigns,”

Lestrade’s smile widened,

“You really did have Tom Brown as one of your classmates and Flashman, didn’t you?”

Mycroft didn’t even try to be offended,

“If by that you mean that it was a traditional education, rather than just meaning I’m very old, then yes, the syllabus hadn’t changed for quite some time,”

Lestrade laughed,

“I’m older than you aren’t I? You’re just a baby!”

Mycroft allowed himself a smile,

“Yes, I’m a whole seventeen months younger than you, grandfather,”

Lestrade laughed again, and Mycroft’s smile got marginally wider despite him.

 

Before Mycroft really knew what had happened their second cup of tea, this time brewed by himself, was a distant memory and it was quarter to eleven and he knew that he would regret the late night in a few very short hours. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it now though. Their conversation had been wide ranging and interesting and he knew that he had laughed more during the course of the evening than he had in the month before.

“I really must be going,” Mycroft began, looking at his watch, which in turn made Lestrade look at his,

“This has been great,” Lestrade said, “don’t be too hard on Sherlock and John when they get back from wherever you’ve sent them to,”

“I never said I’d sent them anywhere,” Mycroft said,

“No, but otherwise why would you be here?” Lestrade replied with a grin.

Mycroft could have denied it but what would have been the point,

“I promise no exile to the Shetland Isles,” he said, standing up and then reaching out a hand when Lestrade began to make attempts to get up himself,

“Cheers,” he said as Mycroft helped to pull him up, “we should do this again, or you know just go out for a drink, you know, when I’m more mobile,”

A straightforward refusal was the first thing on Mycroft’s lips and then he listened to his second thoughts which were along the lines of ‘what could it hurt?’

“Yes, we should,” he agreed, “let me know when you’re more up and about.”

 

In the car, on the way back to his flat, it took him only five minutes to convince himself that Lestrade was only being polite and that he’d made a fool of himself. He was glad of the dark which hid his blush from his driver.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A minor government official and a DI walk into a pub...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plus I got the squid reference in!

Determined as he was Mycroft couldn’t stop his thoughts going back to that evening he’d spent with Greg Lestrade even though a couple of weeks had passed. It had been so comfortable, so easy, conversation running on so many things, almost none of which were his brother or the state of the country or Brexit or any of his usual worries. Unfortunately, every time he recalled the end of their conversation, when he’d discussed going out for a drink with Lestrade adrenaline flooded his system and an embarrassed flush spread over him; how could he have not realised that Lestrade was just following social customs? Mycroft was certain that he wouldn’t hear from him again and that thought left him with a vague … melancholy seemed like the only fitting word – it had been such a good evening.

Still, he shook it off and redirected his thoughts back to the matter of the day, in this case dealing with a not-minor minister who was in desperate need of some help managing an unfortunate situation in his private life. Yet another person who Mycroft judged was likely to go far and would now be indebted, always a useful situation.

When people first knew Mycroft, if they were even slightly aware of what he did, they were surprised to find that he was not glued to his phone during his working hours. The reasons were two fold, first, he had people for that and second he disliked being at its beck and call. Not that he was beyond using his phone as a prop to ensure that people had a full appreciation of their own insignificance. As it was though, Mycroft got to the end of the day without knowing that Lestrade had sent him a text message, but there was his number. Mycroft couldn’t help but stare at it, unopened sitting there, bringing, well he didn’t know what and that feeling was more than a little bit unusual for Mycroft; he didn’t know what to expect. 

There was nothing to do but open it, it might after all be about, for instance, his brother. Except of course for the fact that he had people keeping an eye on his brother, anything important about his brother would not come to him through a text message from Lestrade. He continued to look at his phone, thumbs stroking up and down its case as he thought, or rather he realised, as he prevaricated. He was aware that it was stupid but he found he wasn’t sure he wanted to read the message.

After a few more moments he sat up straighter, posture is important he heard yet again the voice of his grandmother, and touched the screen to open up the message.

> Well I’ve got the cast off, how about that drink?  
>  This is Lestrade BTW

Mycroft really wished he could take the thing at face value, just a friend keeping in touch, inviting him for a drink but he couldn’t quite, he was sure that Lestrade was just being nice and this was the sympathy vote in action. His pride was too great to accept this charity. Not replying though was also out of the question, Mycroft was more than aware that he owed the Detective Inspector a not inconsiderable debt with regards to Sherlock at the very least, without taking account of anything he himself might feel he owed. He thought long and hard about his reply, mentally rearranging his next few days to make his reply honest,

> Sorry, I’m extremely busy for the next little while, so I won’t be available - MH

The reply came back very quickly:

> That’s a shame, but I suppose defending democracy from the forces of evil is not a 9 to 5 job. Also I didn’t realise that signing your texts was a familial thing :-). In honour of the Holmes brothers I shall do likewise. Text me when you *are* free, I enjoyed that evening – GL

 

Mycroft blushed. He had enjoyed the evening but couldn’t see how Lestrade could have, talking to him, it was either kindness speaking in which case Mycroft appreciated the thought, or, more likely, Lestrade had been so bored by his enforced solitude that he would have enjoyed speaking to a dachshund. Either way, if Mycroft replied with a vague affirmative he was sure that would be the last he would hear from Lestrade except in a professional situation.

> I too enjoyed our conversation, I’ll let you know when I’m available - MH

With that Mycroft headed for his flat and tried to think no more about Lestrade. 

 

Lestrade, however seemed to be determined not to allow Mycroft to stop thinking about him. It was nearly a week before Mycroft heard from him again, but six days later at about the time when a ‘normal’ person might be leaving the office he heard the discrete sound that told him he had received a text. He expected that it would be from a certain (different) minister for whom he was handing a sensitive matter, but when he looked at his phone he saw again Lestrade’s number. He opened the message:

> I guess you’re still busy, but I thought you might appreciate the humour of this: www.bbc.co.uk/news/6710543.html. You’ve probably seen it already but just in case – GL

Mycroft did not follow links that were sent to him, but in this case he made an exception. It was a story of which he was aware but Lestrade was right he did find it funny, the extreme double standard displayed was somewhat breath taking. Mycroft was, he realised, touched by the fact that Lestrade had thought of him enough to bother to make sure that he’d seen it. It took him some little while to come up with an answer but then he remembered that he’d seen something about the Commissioner of the Met,

> It is sometimes amazing that such people don’t get friction burns from the speed with which they abandon their principles. Did you see this week’s 7 days quiz? The question about BHH was particularly amusing I thought - MH

The response was back very quickly, making it clear that Lestrade had been waiting with his phone in his hand for Mycroft to reply. Mycroft shuddered minutely at the thought as he opened the message feeling very slightly giddy.

> You know if it wasn’t for the fact that each one seems worse than the last I’d be happy that he hasn’t got too much longer to go. You’ll let me know when you’re not busy, right? - GL

And there was that giddiness again, a bubbling feeling that wanted very much to make itself known to everyone as a smile if not a grin. It didn’t make it, Mycroft hadn’t got his reputation as a person to be feared by wandering the corridors smiling, but it was a close-run thing. Logic told him that for Lestrade to be this persistent he must actually want to spend time with him, but experience had taught him other lessons and then reinforced them over and over again. The giddiness had drained out of him and suddenly all Mycroft felt was tired. Best that he went home and got some sleep before the next ‘emergency’ turned up and he had to deal with it.

 

A rare full night’s sleep did nothing to lessen Mycroft’s tiredness and he was more than aware of his own ill-temper when he went to work the next day. Still, he was not a man to show his emotions, although sometimes he wondered whether that was born into him or learned if not at his parents’ knees then at his grandmother’s table .

His day continued in its usual round, meetings, briefings both given and received, plans of action formulated and it all seemed weary, stale, flat and unprofitable to Mycroft, he really just wanted to go to sleep, which considering how little he usually slept was an odd thing. He gave himself a mental shake and hunkered down for the next meeting. 

It was like so many other meetings that Mycroft had called or attended, stupid people trying to make themselves seem important when they palpably were not, chancers who would have done so much less damage if they’d gone into the field of used cars or the selling on of stolen property instead of going into politics. Mycroft realised that he needed to cut the meeting short when he came within ames ace of telling a senior consular official to get his hand out of the till and his arse out of Mycroft’s office. 

As politely as he could manage he finished up the meeting with promises of a continuation at a later date and when the last of them had gone he asked Anthea to call his car so that he could get home. While he waited, Mycroft collected up the few things he brought with him to the office, his phone included and then poured himself a small scotch, taking it over to the windows to drink as he gazed out over London.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and it just seemed to be part of the general buzz of his mind but eventually he forced himself to look at it.

There was a message from Lestrade and it was in Mycroft’s mind just to delete it unread but he couldn’t quite manage it and called the message to the screen instead and read it.

> I daresay you’re still busy, but on the off-chance, do you fancy a pint or something similar, I’ve had a fuck of a day and I could really use some (good) company. What do you say? - GL

Mycroft had a curt ‘No’ ready to send before he forced himself to stop and think about it and changed his mind,

> I’m not sure that misery really does love company, but certainly from my point of view some company would be welcome, when and where? - MH

The answer came back almost instantaneously,

> There’s a pub, I’ll send you the Postcode, they do a pub quiz tonight, starts at 8.30 between your general and political knowledge and my extensive information on pop culture, we should be able to take them to the cleaners, what do you think? - GL

Honestly, on a gut-reaction, it sounded awful to Mycroft, but Lestrade had sounded so fed up that Mycroft couldn’t in all conscience turn him down,

> Text me the postcode, I’ll see you there at about 8.15 - MH

 

After he’d spent half an hour pondering wardrobe choices, Mycroft had to accept he was being stupid and that he was making a simple outing into far more than it actually was. He had to be clear with himself it was a simple drink with a friend, with perhaps a mildly amusing set of quiz questions. The problem was that his clothes did run much to casual. He had many suits but no pairs of jeans and somehow a blazer and slacks at the sort of pub Lestrade had mentioned didn’t seem to be a goer. Eventually, agonising over the decision in a way that filled him with a vague self-loathing he put on his least formal suit and decided that he would try and look like he’d come straight from work, he’d take his tie off and leave the jacket casually on the seat next to him and that’s what it would look like.

 

Getting out of the taxi outside The Duke’s Head Mycroft found himself doing his usual quick visual survey of the area, noting the CCTV cameras and mentally running a list of the local points of interest, none of which had a blue plaque, and finishing up with the pub itself. A Victorian pub but built into a mid-18th century façade of what had been the house of either an up and coming member of the bourgeoisie, or a down and going member of the aristocracy. Having settled the questions of architecture as well as he could without maps and plans Mycroft squared his shoulders and moved towards the door.

It was dark but not ridiculously so inside and thanks to legislation which he hadn’t had to lean on too many people to pass, the smell of tobacco was there from the previous 200 years but not overpowering (it wasn’t really hypocrisy he told himself, it was just that no one knew better than a smoker how difficult it was to breathe in other people’s smoke when you weren’t smoking yourself). Mycroft hadn’t been sure whether he expected to be the first one there or that Lestrade would be waiting for him. If he were the first there then he would have his choice of location and could most definitely find himself a way to sit with his back to a wall and let Lestrade make his own decision when he arrived, but if Lestrade were already here then he would not end up sat on his own feeling out of place. Or at least no more out of place than he was likely to feel anyway. 

He gave the place a quick once over as he headed to the bar, and didn’t immediately see Lestrade, and then wasn’t sure whether to go to the bar or take a seat. He cursed himself internally – he would be having none of these qualms if he were meeting a head of state or the CEO of some multinational, why was it so much different now he was meeting Lestrade? The answer was laughably obvious, but Mycroft was determined not to think about it.

Firmly focusing his mental processes Mycroft went to the bar, ordered a scotch (not Dutch courage he swore to himself, just what he wanted to drink) and was pleased to see a notice about the quiz, at least he didn’t need to ask what the system was. He paid for the drink and also for the entry fee for a team in the quiz. It seemed quite steep, both the whisky and the entrance fee, but then the scotch was, when he took an experimental sip, very good and if he understood the way these things worked, higher entrance fee meant a higher prize pool and Mycroft was competitive enough to like that idea.

With his drink and his answer sheet in his hand he turned from the bar to identify the best place to sit and caught sight of Lestrade entering the pub. He was astonished to find that he instantly felt more … was buoyant the right word, he wasn’t sure, and that waving to Lestrade didn’t seem half such an asinine thing to do as he would have expected. The feeling didn’t lessen when he saw Lestrade positively beam. 

Lestrade was talking almost before he was near enough for Mycroft to hear him,

“Brilliant!” he said, “I’m so glad you’re here!”

Mycroft genuinely couldn’t remember if anyone had ever been that glad to see him, it was a slightly shocking thought, and he missed more than a beat before he stammered out a reply,

“I too,” he began, coloured at how stupid he sounded and managed to continue with, “I’m glad to see you, d…, Greg,” He was certain that Lestrade would make fun of him, but Greg’s expression didn’t change, it held nothing but a genuine smile of greeting. Feeling bolder he continued, “Let me get you a drink, what would you like?”

“What are you on?” Greg asked,

Mycroft felt his blush deepen, somehow whisky seemed over the top,

“I’ve got a whisky, Dutch courage I’m afraid,” he said, honesty startled out of him, “what would you like?”

“Whisky sounds great,” Greg answered, smiling, Mycroft thought, at the Dutch courage response, no matter how embarrassed Mycroft was at having said it,

“You’ve paid our entrance fee?” Greg asked and Mycroft waved the sheet at him as a reply as he took a sip of his drink, “great, then, let’s find a table otherwise you’ll have to write with the thing on my back,”

Lestrade set off across the room and Mycroft, colouring at Lestrade’s comment and glad of the inadequacy of the lighting, followed him over to a table at the back centre of the room. A good choice of table, pretty much what Mycroft would have chosen, they would be able to hear the questions but they wouldn’t be overlooked by other teams, well not unless they wanted to share the table and Mycroft was sure he could freeze out anyone who tried. 

“How was your day?” Lestrade asked as they got themselves sat down, drinks and answer sheets arranged on the table. Mycroft scrabbled for something to say, small talk was not his strong suit, he knew and that made him second guess anything he might say,

“Oh, not too bad,” he said cringing at the banality, “You didn’t have the best of days I gather?”

“Not really, no, sometimes the sheer stupidity of people is beyond depressing,”

“That’s something with which we can both agree,” Mycroft said with a smile, “If people were more sensible we’d both of us be able to go on short hours,”

“And we both know that neither of us would, don’t we?” 

Just for a second Mycroft was so struck by Lestrade’s open, somehow joyous smile that he could feel his heart beating faster and he wanted that feeling to go on forever. It was only a second before Mycroft reached for his drink to cover any reaction that might have showed on his face and blandly agreed with him,

“Being sensible is a virtue that is often overlooked,” Mycroft said,

“Well, there is such a thing as being too sensible, sometimes,” Lestrade replied, “there are times when you have to take a chance,”

“Yes, but it should be a calculated chance, should it not?”

“Probably,” he said and Mycroft thought he could hear the ghost of a sigh that came with that answer.

 

The quiz was much more entertaining than Mycroft had expected it to be. They were more than lucky with some of the questions, the picture round was cabinet ministers which Mycroft answered while giving Lestrade vicious three line descriptions of each one, there was a history round of which slightly surprisingly Lestrade could answer everyone and a ‘make the connections’ music round where Mycroft’s knowledge of classical music and Lestrade’s knowledge of rock meshed in an entirely satisfactory way. Of course, there were some rounds that were more difficult, but in quizzes they were both very good at getting into the mind of the question setter and using that to help them guess accurately

“In what way is the Big Fin Squid different from all other species of squid?”

“No point asking that question if it’s not about the tentacles,” Lestrade whispered quietly,

“None at all,” Mycroft agreed, “so, more or fewer?”

“More, it wouldn’t be as interesting a question if it was less,”

“Nine?”

“Things are mostly symmetrical, let’s go for ten,”

The grin on Lestrade’s face when they got the question right would have been worth a far less pleasant evening. And that was the surprising thing, it had been a pleasant evening, better than pleasant if Mycroft was going to be honest. Nor could he detect any suggestion that Lestrade hadn’t enjoyed it just as much. It was helped for both of them that they won too, although Mycroft would hate to admit it he knew he was horribly competitive; winning was always good.

“Right, the final scores are in, third place and £25 goes to the Wandering Bankers, second place and £50 to Team of Dreams, but 1st place and £100 goes to a new team for tonight, Sherlock’s Handlers! Everyone come and collect their prizes!”

It was getting quite late, so they both got up to collect their prize and be congratulated by the organiser and with less enthusiasm by the runners up, most of whose comments were along the lines of good to see new competitors with an implied, ‘please don’t turn up too often’, and then they left.

It was cold out in the night air in comparison to the warm, muggy atmosphere of the pub, Mycroft could see his breath. His earlier awkwardness was back in force, making him feel like he imagined Sherlock had felt all through his childhood (as had Mycroft he had to admit at least to himself), like everyone else understood the rules and no one would tell him what they were. He knew he ought to speak as the two of them stood there in the cold night air, but everything he thought of saying sounded so stupid and so gauche that he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Eventually, just when Mycroft was hoping that he really would, Lestrade put him out of his misery,

“That was brilliant,” he said, a wide grin on his face, “we should do this regularly,”

“Not sure how popular we’d be, if we turned up every week,”

“No, but we could go to some different ones, you know when we’re both free, seems like every pub in the city runs a quiz night at least once a month,”

Mycroft was shocked to hear something that he would almost classify as pleading in Lestrade’s voice and for the first time he let himself think that perhaps this wasn’t just Lestrade being polite, the thought took him by surprise,

“Yes,” he replied feeling daring, “that would be good, I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an evening more,”

“Thought you would, competitive person like you, I thought it would be a distraction and it was for me, helps to put things in perspective. What are we going to do with our winnings?”

“Well,” Mycroft replied, feeling ridiculously nervous, “we could spend it on a nice meal?”


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft’s first thought when he woke up the following morning was what was I thinking? There was no way that Lestrade wanted to go out for a meal with him and there was no way in which Mycroft could possibly cope with going out for a meal with Lestrade. There were so many reasons not least of which was the fact that he had no idea why Lestrade would want to spend time with him and the thought of eating in public, in a social setting with a person in whom he had to admit, at least to himself, an interest was horrific. It was like all his old insecurities had come rushing in like his security detail if he’d pressed his panic button. 

He got out of bed hurriedly, and for just a moment let the panic wash over him, but it was just for a moment, he had a number of well-practiced methods for dealing with the times when he felt like this and he began to employ them, consciously pulling down his breathing rate, knowing that his heart rate would decrease with it. When he was calm again he thought his way through what had happened. It was a worry that the thought of a meal with Lestrade had left him in that state, it had been some years since he’d had an … attack … that bad and months since he’d had one at all. He could not afford to get into that state again, therefore the only logical thing to do would be to cut Lestrade out of his thoughts altogether.

It might have been logical but it was unacceptable was his next thought. The thought of not seeing Lestrade again made him feel what he recognised was a different kind of panic, but a panic all the same. The voice in his mind that always sounded suspiciously like his grandmother told him how pathetic he was being, asked him why he couldn’t just find a suitable woman to carry on the family name, told him for the billionth time that he was disgusting. That was not however, a rabbit hole down which he was going to fall, enough time and nervous energy had been spent on that old bitch. The thought of her had one salutary effect however, the fact that she would have disapproved of Lestrade on so many levels made Mycroft suddenly determined to see where this whatever it was would take him; after all, the very worst thing that could happen would be a nice meal, it wasn’t like Lestrade would be interested in him after all.

While he carried out his morning ablutions Mycroft pondered where they could get a decent lunch or dinner for £50 a head. Trying to think of the right place to go occupied Mycroft’s thoughts on and off through the day. The problem was that the amount of money was intermediate between cheap but good and expensive. Something told Mycroft that Lestrade would have a problem if they went somewhere that entailed the money being ‘topped up’ and he would certainly offer to pay his way, of that Mycroft was sure. Then there was the issue of whether they should go somewhere where Mycroft was a regular customer. If they did it would have the advantage of ensuring excellent service but the disadvantage of Lestrade being treated like he was a visiting dignitary or something similar, again, Mycroft did not think he would like that over much. By the end of the day, Mycroft was no nearer coming up with an answer but he had misspoken in an important negotiation and he did have a brutish headache that nothing seemed to be able to shift. He told himself how ridiculous he was being, how he was making far too big a deal of a throw away remark that Lestrade probably didn’t even remember; he resolved to think about it no more and stuck to his resolve with persistence and it had to be said, limited success.

 

It was three days later when he got a text from Lestrade:

> Hope you haven’t forgotten about our winnings, I know a little place quite near work, but not too near, what evening would suit you? – GL

Mycroft smiled, both at the text and at the initials which seemed to be the kind of little in-joke that was the sort of thing of which he was not normally a part. Warmed by that thought he decided to attempt to leave behind his worries and for once to not look beyond the fact that he would enjoy Lestrade’s company for an evening. He replied, 

> I could do any evening this week, after 8pm, with the exception of Wednesday when I must be at work for a late conference call – MH

Lestrade’s reply came back very quickly

> Let’s say Thursday, then, like last week, the postcode is SE1 1TX, it’s a bit less than we won but it’s supposed to be good, shall I book it? We can plan which quiz we’re going to raid next! – GL

Mycroft was aware of the fact that he was positively grinning as he sent back an affirmative response to Lestrade’s suggestion that he book a table and he realised what a fine feeling it was to have something to look forward to.

 

Which wasn’t to say that come 7.30 on Thursday he wasn’t as nervous as hell. It didn’t seem to matter how much he logically thought the even through, he still had a hollow stomach and an inability to stand still which kept him pacing around his living room. His car was due to come for him at 7.45, he knew that Anthea would have arranged that and her arrangements never fell through; that was the reason that he employed her after all, but that still didn’t stop him pacing and peering out to watch the street below. Eventually, swearing at himself under his breath he forced himself to sit down and pull out one of the sets of briefing papers that were his constant companions. Knowing that he was distracted however he did make sure it was the least important of them.

Time ticked on while Mycroft could not have said that he knew more about the likely effects on imports and exports of increasing the taxation on spirits for all his reading. Eventually there came the usual discrete knock on his door and he stood up, carefully putting the papers where they belonged and moved to the door.

“Sir,” his driver said,

“Good evening, Stephen,” he replied as they walked down the stairs, “you know where we are going?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, “It’ll take about fifteen minutes at this time of night.”

He didn’t of course need to say that the time had been specifically calculated so that Mycroft would arrive exactly on time, the one saying of his grandmother’s that Mycroft still consciously went with was ‘punctuality is the politeness of kings’.

 

It seemed that Lestrade thought so too, he was waiting under the narrow awning outside the restaurant as Mycroft got out of his car and leaned towards the driver’s door to say that he need neither wait nor come back for him. By the time Mycroft had straightened up, Lestrade had walked over to him with a broad grin on his face,

“Bang on time,” he said, “makes me glad Sally chased me out of the office in plenty of time!”

Mycroft smiled in return, 

“You have Sally, I have Anthea, it’s much the same thing,”

“Come inside and we’ll start the evening with a toast to the pair of them,” Lestrade replied, and Mycroft found himself grinning back as they moved into the restaurant.

Lestrade spoke to the waiter as they entered and he indicated that they should wait in the bar until their table was ready. Mycroft found himself bristling ever so slightly, though he tried to cover up that reaction. Not well enough as it turned out,

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” Lestrade said, a hint of apology in his tone, “what would you like to drink?”

Mycroft had no idea how to make this right, or if indeed he needed to make anything right, it took him a second or two to reply, and in fact Lestrade spoke again before he could,

“I’m sorry, we don’t need to stay if, you know, this isn’t what you want, or what you’re used to or you know, whatever,”

Lestrade’s speech petered out and he was left there, blushing and looking un comfortable. Mycroft felt like the world’s worst guest. He hastened to try and reassure Lestrade, 

“I’m terribly sorry, I’m used to things being done on the instant, it’s not so much for me it’s usually that the people I dine with would regard being asked to wait as an insult,” he took a deep breath looked away and continued with a sigh, “so many of the people I dine with are unmitigated arses, that’s why I’ve been so looking forward to this evening.”

Lestrade did not reply right away, and Mycroft had to make himself look back at him, wondering what reaction he was going to get to his comment. The reaction was not what he expected, Lestrade had an almost dazed expression and a distinct flush to his cheeks and Mycroft worried that he had just either made things worse or just plain embarrassed himself. He opened his mouth ready to speak again but Lestrade got in first, saying quietly,

“I’ve been looking forward to it too, you have nothing to apologise for, I was just being insecure and nervous. How about we both try not to do that anymore? What do you want to drink?”

Mycroft swallowed,

“Scotch?” he genuinely couldn’t help the question in his response but Lestrade was good enough not to make a fuss about it,

“Good,” he replied and turned to the bar, attracting the barman’s attention with an assurance that Mycroft envied and ordered two double single malts. 

The whisky was good, a nice single malt with a hint of peat about it but not as much like drinking a burning bog as Laphroaig always was, Mycroft knew that his appreciative hum would have been enough for Lestrade, but he thought he’d better say something as well,

“Well, they certainly know their scotch,”

Lestrade’s grin was wide and bright and Mycroft felt a warmth building up in his chest and a desire to see that expression more often. “How was your day?” he asked,

Lestrade took a sip of his drink, 

“Pretty much a score draw,” Lestrade replied, “one case where we got a result we’d been working on for months and one suspect who scarpered, catch him tomorrow though, with anything like a bit of luck.”

“I don’t think luck has much to do with it,” Mycroft said, “more like an excessive amount of hard work,”

Lestrade looked down and for a moment Mycroft worried that he’d said something wrong until Lestrade looked back at him and Mycroft caught the tail end of a smile and the blush that went with it,

“Flattery, Mr Holmes, will get you everywhere,”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that,

“Everywhere?” 

Part of his mind was screaming at him asking what he was thinking, Lestrade could not possibly have meant what he was trying not to assume, but also there was a bubbling feeling that he could only categorise as elation at Lestrade’s response; he would say he that he felt like a child again, but for the fact that he’d never felt like that when he was a child,

“Pretty much,” Lestrade replied, holding Mycroft’s gaze for what seemed like forever before he carried on speaking, “I’m told the steak here is pretty good…”

Mycroft was disappointed for a second before he responded to the conversational opening, wishing he could read Lestrade’s mind and know what he was thinking, how he wanted Mycroft to respond. 

Their discussion of food was somewhat strained with long pauses from both of them and it was a relief when the waiter approached, 

“Your table is ready now,” he said, aiming the statement somewhere between the two of them and Mycroft could see by the slight crinkle beside Lestrade’s eye that he too found this amusing, how difficult to be a waiter in these days when any combination of people might turn up at any time. Lestrade took the lead which seemed only mete to Mycroft, the restaurant had after all been Lestrade’s selection, and they were shown to their table.

Again, it was not what Mycroft was used to, being on the direct line to the kitchens more than half way back through the room, but this time he was more successful at hiding the fact. 

They seated themselves, the waiter not apparently inclined to help either of them with their chairs and were handed their menus and the waiter left with an order for another scotch each,

“He must be new at this,” Lestrade mused as he looked at the menu, “we surely can’t be the only two blokes who’ve ever come in here for a meal, not in this day and age,”

“I don’t see how we would be,” Mycroft replied, “perhaps he’s used to people being more ‘couply’?”

“What do you think about the East Anglian Chateaubriand for two?” Lestrade asked and Mycroft looked down at this menu slightly nonplussed by the change of topic,

“Yes, that sounds lovely, have you seen the English wines they offer?”

Lestrade coughed slightly, and Mycroft glanced up from the wine list to catch Lestrade just looking away from him,

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft began, “did I,” he swallowed, “do something wrong? Say something wrong?”

“No, of course not, I was just thinking that we are behaving a bit couply, aren’t we?”

“And is that a problem, I mean, I know that you’re straight, but,”

“No, I’m not,” Lestrade interrupted, sounding surprised, and then off Mycroft’s presumably bemused expression he continued, “not straight, I mean.”

Mycroft had no idea what to say to that. Not a single coherent thought presented itself and that was of course the time at which the waiter returned to take their order. Again he didn’t seem to know who to talk to . In other circumstances it might have been, would have been, funny, but here and now when Mycroft also didn’t know who should be taking the lead or indeed if anyone should it just seemed to further point out Mycroft’s horrific social ineptitude. Eventually, Mycroft managed to stammer out their order, hoping that Lestrade had agreed to the chateaubriand, because that was the only thing that he could remember from the menu. Lestrade took pity on him when it came to the wine and just added on the recommended wine despite the cost and after an age the waiter left. 

And now Mycroft realised that he had let too much time pass without responding to what Lestrade had said even though it would have been the height of bad manners to have anything like a conversation with the waiter standing by. It was excruciating and all the possible responses were either, stupid, suggestive or both. But something had to be done or said, so he took a deep breath,

“I assumed,” he began as Lestrade said,

“I know I was married…”

They both stopped speaking and looked at each other for a moment that seemed to Mycroft to be ridiculously long . Eventually, after an Age of Man, Lestrade continued,

“I know I was married, but I’m not, straight that is, I’m bisexual, and now I’ve said that I realise how completely inappropriate it was to tell you that, sorry,”

Mycroft wanted to say something that would reassure Lestrade but could think of nothing, in the end he just blurted out what was at the front of his mind,

“It’s not inappropriate.”

Lestrade who had been looking down at his whisky glass, looked up sharply at that, 

“It isn’t?”

“No,” Mycroft confirmed forcing himself to look straight at Lestrade and being rewarded by seeing a small smile form on Lestrade’s lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some slight mentions of issues (in the past) with food, just so you are aware

It was difficult to know what to say after that and Mycroft found himself continuing to stare at Lestrade, but whereas Mycroft would have found it uncomfortable that didn’t seem to be the case for Lestrade, the small smile just broadened until Mycroft couldn’t help but return it. It was Lestrade who spoke first,

“I’m really glad to hear that,” Lestrade said, “I would have made the most enormous fool of myself if that hadn’t been the case, wouldn’t I?”

Mycroft could think of literally nothing to say to that and he knew that he was blushing, and it was all he could do to stop the mental cursing he was doing becoming actually audible,

“Nnno,” he stammered out eventually, “why would you have made a fool of yourself?”

Mycroft finally managed to look away and instead fiddled with the exact placement of the cutlery in a way that would have called down a rebuke on his head at his grandmother’s table, although that thought almost made him break out in nervous giggles; rearranging the cutlery would have been the last thing that even she would have been worrying about in this conversation,

“Well,” Lestrade continued, “most men would have considered that a come on, and that usually goes one of two ways, a polite knock back or an impolite attempt at a knock out, it’s difficult picking up men, you know,”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said, his voice quiet enough that Lestrade had to lean forward to catch what he was saying, “it’s not something I’ve ever done,”

“Sorry, did I misunderstand what you said earlier?”

“No, no you didn’t, it’s just that I’ve never really … not since I was a teenager … it never went well, I’m sorry, I’ll shut up now.”

“No,” Lestrade said, “you don’t need to censor what you say to me, not ever, honestly”

“That’s more easily said than done,” Mycroft said, going back to fiddling with the tableware, “I do not find conversation easy at the best of times and when it is important then it is even worse,”

“This is important? This conversation is important?”

Mycroft sat up straighter and faced Lestrade directly, looking directly into his eyes,

“Are you making fun of me?” he asked and he allowed a hint of the steel that he showed in negotiations about work enter his voice,

Lestrade held his hands up,

“No, no, of course not, I’m sorry I wouldn’t do that, it’s just I can’t tell where we’re up to, where the conversation is going, talking to you isn’t like talking to other people. You’re not playing the game, you’re not following the script, it’s … good but it’s unnerving. Have I stuffed everything up?”

Mycroft took a deep breath and was about to speak when the waiter turned up with a bottle of wine, offering to pour a small glass for them to try it. Again, he didn’t seem to know which of them to approach. Mycroft waived him towards Lestrade and the next couple of minutes were taken up in the routine of accepting the bottle and pouring each of them a glass.

“Well,” Lestrade said as the waiter walked away, “do you know how little I know about wine? You could be about to sip a fine malt vinegar for all you know! I can only just about tell white from red on a good day. Tell me, is it any good?”

Mycroft was happy to accept the change of topic,

“You don’t need to know anything about it,” he said, “just ask yourself, ‘Do I like the taste of it?’, if the answer is yes, then away you go,”

“So you’re not one of these ‘oak undertones and a hint of mint Viennetta’ people?” Lestrade asked, carrying on speaking before Mycroft could reply, “That’s a relief, I’ve been invited to a few tastings over the years and it’s just always seemed like utter bollocks to me,”

“It mostly is,” Mycroft agreed, “very much a case of the emperor’s new wine most of the time, one pretentious idiot says he can taste the quartz in the south facing western slopes of the vineyard and the next can’t back down in case it’s just that he has ‘no palette’.” He stopped speaking and took a drink from his glass, “what I would say about this wine is that it’s quite dry, reasonably fruity, doesn’t taste either like it’s been corked _or_ malt vinegar and it should go well with the beef, that’s enough for me.”

Lestrade smiled and took a drink himself,

“Good, that’s how it seemed to me. What were you going to say?”

Mycroft thought about playing stupid and pretending not to understand Lestrade’s question and then decided against it,

“I was going to say that you hadn’t stuffed everything up and to ask whether I had by taking things too much to heart or far too seriously,”

“Is that what people have told you in the past?” Lestrade asked; the fact that he’d answered Mycroft’s question with a question made his nerves that much worse and he struggled to keep his voice even as he replied,

“Yes, fairly frequently, well as often as I’ve had this kind of conversation with people anyway.”

“That’s a shame,” Lestrade said, “you shouldn’t have had people treating you like that,”

It was said with such warmth and apparent sincerity that Mycroft looked up from his contemplation of his own hands to catch an expression that he couldn’t decipher on Lestrade’s face,

“I mean it,” he continued, “Lennon and McCartney had it right in Hey Jude, when they said it was a fool who played it cool . I bet literally hundreds of people a day pass up a chance of happiness because they’re too concerned that they might end up looking silly in front of a person,” Lestrade picked up a breadstick and unwrapped it, “who if they aren’t interested they probably won’t see again, it’s stupid and don’t let anyone tell you any different.” He emphasised his point by jabbing the breadstick in Mycroft’s direction and then biting the end of it.

Mycroft couldn’t have helped himself if he tried, the giggles just burst out of him .

It was clearly the effect that Lestrade had been hoping for and a broad grin replaced the stern look with which he’d delivered his last comment to Mycroft,

“That’s better,” he continued, “I won’t have you feel bad about yourself about anything you’ve said to me. On another note, this breadstick is awful!”

Mycroft smothered another giggle, the fact that he giggled was one of the major reasons he usually tried not to laugh in public, but tonight it didn’t seem to matter,

“Thank you,” he said, “and I apologise for the breadstick, let us hope the chateaubriand will be better.”

“I don’t think you’re responsible for the state of the breadsticks, I bet I’m the only one who’s eaten one in living memory, not the sort of place people bring their kids, this,”

Mycroft took his meaning,

“Sherlock once, in an Italian restaurant, ate two dozen breadsticks, in the end the proprietor came from the kitchen to watch him. My grandparents were mortified,”

“Your grandparents?” Lestrade asked,

“Yes, we spent a lot of time with them when we were younger, when Mummy was away on one of her consultations,”

“Consultations? Tell me that Sherlock isn’t just following in the family footsteps? Holmes and Son, PIs to the rich and famous?”

“Not quite,” Mycroft answered, and then took a sip of wine before he continued, leaning slightly forward, “Mummy’s consultations were a little more in the scientific vein, although there were occasions when she got involved in things.”

“There’s a story there,” Lestrade commented , “But just possibly not one you can tell without breaking the OSA and I’d hate to have to end the evening by arresting you,”

“I’ll tell you someday,” Mycroft replied, “but not tonight, I don’t feel like rehashing the past tonight .”

“No,” Lestrade agreed, “tonight feels more like a present and future kind of night.”

Mycroft couldn’t have helped but blush if his life depended on it and he certainly couldn’t have pulled together a coherent sentence so it was good he thought that Lestrade continued,

“We need to find a quiz to terrorise next time we get a free evening. I feel like we shouldn’t pick on one set of people too often, what do you think?”

“Well,” Mycroft managed, giving himself time to gather his scattered thoughts together from the hundreds of places to which they had flown, “I certainly wouldn’t want to be a regular anywhere, and I’d be willing to bet that we’re going to win more often than not,”

“I’d say so, people remember the people who win, so it’s either throw the occasional evening or go to different ones each time,” he looked up and then jerked back slightly in his seat, “What?”

“’Throw the occasional evening? Really? You mean let someone else win?”

Lestrade laughed, a full unselfconscious laugh and Mycroft couldn’t help but smile even though he was still more than a little outraged,

“I never knew you were that competitive,” Lestrade managed to splutter out, “You really couldn’t throw the quiz if you needed to?”

Mycroft thought for a moment,

“I could, but I wouldn’t want to,” Mycroft swallowed before he forced himself to continue, “I really am terribly competitive, sorry,”

“What on earth are you apologising for? I’m just as bad, I promise you.”

“I doubt if you are as bad as me,” Mycroft said, “I could tell you some stories, but thank you.”

Lestrade took a breath to speak and then instead looked over Mycroft’s shoulder, 

“Look out, looks like our food is here.”

Indeed, the waiter was bringing over the food, and curse the man, he was still dithering over ‘who’s the man’ questions. Mycroft directed him over to Lestrade, hoping that he was doing right. They were each helped to two slices of beef and a Yorkshire Pudding and the vegetables were left for them to help themselves,

“Thank goodness it didn’t need carving,” Lestrade said, “he’d have had a conniption trying to work out the rights and wrongs of that one.”

It was said with a genuine smile and Mycroft could feel himself relaxing just a little,

“I’ve seen similar things served that way,” Mycroft agreed, “he must either be very new at this or,”

“Or,” Lestrade interrupted again with a smile, “he’s just a comedy waiter, employed so that the clientele has a funny story to tell after they’ve eaten here.”

“Could be that, he looks too old to be new at the job.”

They both turned their attention to their food at this point. Mycroft almost sighed with relief when he tried his beef, it was both good and well prepared and the vegetables were perfect , he hadn’t realised how nervous he’d been about it, he really wanted Lestrade’s choice to go right for reasons that he wasn’t prepared to mentally investigate. It seemed that Lestrade liked it as well if the moan of appreciation was anything to go by. Mycroft looked up with a smile,

“It’s very good, isn’t it?”

Lestrade swallowed before he spoke,

“Yeah, but to be honest I’m not sure it would have mattered, with one thing and another I haven’t eaten much today,”

“Busy day?”

“Pretty much, a couple of new things over night and a charge or release deadline that ran out at the most inconvenient time it could.”

“Which of those did you do?” Mycroft asked, and at Lestrade’s puzzled look he clarified, “Charge or release?”

“Oh,” Lestrade responded, “charge, bit of a gamble at the moment but nowhere near as much of a gamble as letting him go and hoping he’d still be around when we wanted him. CPS brief wasn’t that happy, but I talked him round,”

Mycroft didn’t doubt it, Lestrade seemed like he’d be able to sell snow to the Inuit, leastways Mycroft was fairly sure that Lestrade could persuade him of nearly anything,

“You shouldn’t skip meals,” Mycroft replied on automatic whilst he thought about Lestrade’s persuasive powers,

“Oh,” Lestrade said with a smile, “Nothing ever gets in the way of you eating I suppose?”

For an instant Mycroft was back at his grandmother’s table being told that he should leave some potatoes for everyone else, even though rationally he knew what Lestrade meant, suddenly the succulent beef was like ashes in his mouth. He pulled a smile together and tried to cover his momentary discomfort. Lestrade was far too observant for it to come close to working,

“I’m sorry,” he said, “that was a ridiculous thing to say,”

Mycroft interrupted him,

“You have nothing to apologise for, and you’re right I do not always manage the regular, controlled meal times that my grandmother felt were so important, time zones seem to have been designed to be inconvenient.”

Mycroft hoped that Lestrade would accept that and move on , and for a moment, whilst Mycroft attempted to pull himself together it seemed that he would but it was in the end a vain hope.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat before he spoke again,

“I really am sorry, I don’t suppose I could have said anything worse to you, I know that Sherlock’s always a prat to you about eating, but you have to know I didn’t mean that at all,”

“Yes,” Mycroft interrupted, “of course I know that, truly, I have taken no offence and I am not upset any more than I am by Sherlock’s references to my `size’, I know that you meant only to refer to my lamentable lack of, what is the phrase, ‘work-life balance’, please let us enjoy our meal.”

In his own ears what he said sounded frenetic and stupid, and certainly like he was protesting far too much, but Lestrade didn’t seem to care,

“OK, so long as I haven’t mortally offended you?”

“No, nothing much mortally offends me,” Mycroft paused as he sought for a change of subject, “what are you currently working on, if you can tell me about it?”

Lestrade looked across at him and smiled and then began to tell Mycroft about the man he’d had charged earlier in the day. Mycroft could tell that Lestrade was emphasising the comedic elements of the story but also that underlying that was a layer of determination to see justice done that was impressive after better than 20 years in the police force . 

“…so, in the end we just had to wait for him to turn up,”

“Yes, but it was only that simple because of the work you’d put in earlier, am I correct?”

Lestrade looked down and Mycroft was nearly sure that he was blushing,  
“Well,”

“Well nothing,” Mycroft continued, “you are exceedingly good at your job, we both know that,”

“How do you know?” Lestrade asked, “Have you been checking on my clear-up rate?” It was said with a smile but Mycroft was more than aware of the micro-expressions and tone that told him this was a bigger, more important question,

“Largely I know because Sherlock would not be able to tolerate you if you were not good at your job,”

“He calls me a prat ten times an hour,”

“Yes, but that’s just Sherlock, he does that to everyone, no matter what. Do you want to know how else I know that you’re good at your job?”

“Go on then,” Lestrade replied, with the same tension back in his voice,

“Because, almost nothing that Sherlock comes up with would stand up in court, you must and do spend an inordinate amount of time actually finding the sort of evidence that a jury could even understand, plus, you have an attention to detail and a desire to win that makes it clear that if you weren’t very good at your job you’d have given it up years ago.”

Lestrade continued to look at him for a moment before he directed his attention back to his food and even in the low lighting in the restaurant Mycroft could see that his ears were bright red. It took Mycroft a little time to work out how he felt about that, and not for the first time he cursed the fact that whilst he could pick up on tiny tells in the dreary politicians he routinely worded with in personal matters he was bloody useless . Lestrade said something but it was in such low tones that Mycroft didn’t catch it and what was more he wasn’t really sure he was supposed to catch it, he decided to make the effort thought,

“What did you say? I didn’t catch it,”

Lestrade looked up slowly,

“I said,” he started to reply putting down his knife and fork and then clearing his throat before looking more directly at Mycroft, “That’s not what people usually say, especially when any sort of comparison with Sherlock is made, you know there was a cartoon in The Standard once, Sherlock striding away all cheekbones and flouncy coat and me scuttling along at the back of him. You wouldn’t believe how many photocopies of that some of my team made.”

Without thinking Mycroft leaned slightly forward and reached across to lightly cup Lestrade’s left hand, keeping his eyes fixed on their hands together

“We have that very much in common,” he said, “constantly being compared to Sherlock and not favourably. I sometimes think it’s _because_ he doesn’t follow any rules and people secretly admire that,” he rubbed his thumb gently up and down the side of Lestrade’s index finger until he could feel the clenched hand relax a little and then he looked up, “we must both of us strive to know our own worth regardless.”

The smile that Lestrade turned on him for a second was blinding before he looked down at their hands. Mycroft tensed but before he could move Lestrade had moved to hold his hand before very gently and carefully raising it to his lips for a moment.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft flushed to his hair-line in an instant and found that he couldn’t look away from Lestrade, from where Lestrade still cupped Mycroft’s hand in his own and then just as suddenly the moment was over and Lestrade was picking up his cutlery again and Mycroft had to steel himself not to snatch his hand away. Carefully and probably, he considered, too slowly he also picked up his knife and fork and made a show of pushing the remains of his meal around his plate, desperately trying to find anything to say that didn’t seem like either a put down or a come on. After what seemed like an eternity Lestrade spoke, 

“So, was this a decent suggestion?” he asked,

Mycroft hadn’t a clue what he was talking about for a second and then knowing that his pause was going to be obvious he realised that Lestrade meant the restaurant,

“Yes, the food’s very good I would say,”

It sounded inane to Mycroft’s ears but Lestrade picked up the conversation and continued,

“Good, do you fancy desert?”

Miserably unfocused and incoherent as he was suddenly feeling Mycroft did indeed fancy a pudding, it was too good an opportunity to miss,

“Yes, that would be good, what do you want?”

“I thought I might try the trifle,” Lestrade said, “what will you have?”

“Sticky toffee pudding,” he replied, which for some reason made Lestrade glance quickly up at him,

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade began, “I didn’t mean to upset you,”

Mycroft was instantly on alert, 

“What makes you think that I’m upset?”

“Sticky toffee pudding,” Lestrade said, “comfort food, I think I made you feel uncomfortable and for that I’m truly sorry,”

He was far too close to the truth for Mycroft and he hurried to deny and to reassure,

“You haven’t made me feel uncomfortable,” he said, jumping in before Lestrade could say anything else, “you surprised me, you made me feel something I don’t have the words to describe and that is not a thing that I am used to. Words are my tools and my stock-in-trade and not being able to find the right ones is disconcerting to say the least.” Mycroft made himself look properly at Lestrade and realised that he could say the same to him, “what of you? You don’t seem as relaxed as you did a while ago?”

Lestrade shrugged,

“I’m never that comfortable when I’ve stuffed things up,”

“You haven’t stuffed anything up,” Mycroft began before he was interrupted,

“It was an idiotic thing to do,” Lestrade said, “wildly inappropriate, I don’t think there are enough apologies in the world, it’s pretty typical me to stuff something up instead of just settling for a good thing.”

Mycroft shifted in his seat slightly, moving closer to Lestrade as much as he was able with a table in the way, reaching partially across the table so that his hand was again close to Lestrade’s arm,

“I will say it again,” he said, carefully keeping his voice neutral so that, he hoped, Lestrade would realise that he meant it, that he wasn’t just repeating himself, “you haven’t stuffed anything up. What you did was unexpected, but it was in no way unpleasant or unwanted.”

“Was it really that surprising?” Lestrade asked and Mycroft was glad to see that his posture had relaxed just a little from the ‘puppy about to be smacked’ body language of a moment ago,

“Well,” Mycroft said, “it’s not something that has happened before,”

“No, I don’t suppose many people have kissed your hand,” Lestrade replied, 

“No, not many,” Mycroft agreed, “not many have kissed me at all,” 

The second the words were out of his mouth Mycroft would have given his right hand to take them back but before he could say anything Lestrade was speaking again,

“I can’t believe that,” Lestrade said with a smile, which slowly drained away when he met Mycroft’s gaze. The pause in the conversation went on for longer than either of them were comfortable with and while Mycroft tried to find anything to say that wasn’t going to sound pathetic in its truest meaning. Eventually Lestrade spoke again, “It only goes to show that even your brother gets things right from time to time,”

Mycroft raised a quizzical eyebrow and Lestrade continued, “’People are stupid,’ that’s what he says and if you’ve really never been kissed then it must be true.”

Mycroft blushed again, it seemed to be his new habit, and, also again, he couldn’t find the words for how he was feeling. It did seem to him to be imperative that he should speak,

“To be honest, there have been very few people whom I have wanted to kiss me, and, also, I really was a very unappealing child and youth.”

“Very few people?” Lestrade asked,

“Very few,” Mycroft confirmed. He paused waiting for Lestrade to say something, to ask his question, but it appeared that Lestrade was content to keep staring at him with a puzzled crease between his eyes. Mycroft still waited, sure that the question ‘Am I one of the very few?’ would come but they were interrupted by the waiter enquiring about desert,

“I’ll have the sticky toffee pudding, and,”

“I’ll have the trifle,” Lestrade finished finally coming out of his reverie and then turning to watch the waiter head back to the kitchen. Mycroft decided that he wasn’t going to wait and worry, he was going to take charge of the thing,

“You were wondering whether to ask if you were included in the minority or the majority.” He didn’t ask it as a question, it wasn’t a question he was sure of the answer, and so he continued, “You are one of a very select minority indeed, if it helps you to know that.”

It was Lestrade’s turn to blush, even in the subdued lighting of the restaurant it was obvious. For a second he met Mycroft’s gaze before he looked down with, Mycroft noted, a very, very small smile,

Lestrade cleared his throat and spoke very quietly,

“That’s really good to hear.”

 

 

Sitting at his desk the following day Mycroft had to admit that he was distracted, that he lacked focus. It was a disconcerting feeling to put it mildly. He kept drifting into day dreams and against all sense it seemed like he could still feel where Lestrade’s lips had touched his hand. They’d left the restaurant without really saying anything more certainly nothing about how they were feeling and what was going to happen next and at the time that had seemed to Mycroft to be a good thing. This morning he was less than sure. This morning he was constantly wondering if he should have made how he was feeling clearer to Lestrade but equally he wondered whether he’d said too much, whether he’d been too gauche even though he knew or thought he knew that Lestrade was not the sort of person who would ever think that. More than anything he wanted to ring Lestrade or text him or do anything that would make last night seem more real and less like wishful thinking.

“Your 1.30 is here, sir,” it was Anthea, and Mycroft was shocked to realise he hadn’t even noticed her coming into the room, she might even have had to repeat herself. This would not do. Mycroft sat up straighter,

“Please send them in,” he replied, “and when Sir Peter arrives please make sure that he has refreshments and is seated somewhere where the Right Honourable Member for Didcot East will see him as he leaves, that should make him nice and paranoid.

The rest of the afternoon went better, Mycroft was able to focus and his careful strategies worked well, after all, the MP in question wasn’t to know that the bulk of Mycroft’s conversation was about sponsorship of the English National Opera rather than the backhanders that he was getting from a foreign power, but it would be enough for him to decide that it was the right moment for him to start to ‘spend more time with his family’; all in all a job well done and the funding for this season’s production of Butterfly was now on a sounder financial footing.

Those two interrelated appointments were the last of what he had to do that day, which he came to think was an unfortunate circumstance because it left him with very little to think about besides whether he should contact Lestrade or not; whether he would be waiting for Mycroft to call him or whether, and Mycroft knew this was coming from his insecurities, he was hoping that was the last he would hear of Mycroft Holmes. Stupid though it was Mycroft found it hard not to listen to his insecurities and he ended up going home still toying with his phone, still replaying the previous evening and second guessing everything he had said and done, up to and including his choice of food and wine. It was annoying and more than that it was exhausting. He had to make a hundred decisions a day about things that were sometimes the difference between life and death and here he was tying himself up in knots about Lestrade. It was ridiculous. He determined that he wouldn’t think about it again, either Lestrade would contact him or the whole thing would die a death, and he would be left with a pleasant memory.

 

His resolve was wearing ragged by the end of the next afternoon. It had been a tedious day, long meetings that should most certainly have been short ones or if Mycroft had had is way no meeting at all, just sensible edicts issued by him and everyone else hopping to. He allowed himself a smile at what Lestrade would say to that and tried to turn back to his work. It was to no avail, once he’d thought about Lestrade all he wanted to do was to talk to him. Mycroft took a deep breath, and decided to allow himself a short text, one that wouldn’t commit him to anything,

> You are a distraction  
> MH

He put his phone down determined that he would not look at it until fifteen minutes had passed. But very quickly, before he’d even really found where he’d got to with his work his phone buzzed. No, he thought, fifteen minutes, I must have some self-control. Three minutes of aimless, random scrolling up and down the document before him and he began to reason that he would do a more productive fifteen minutes of work if he were just to look, after all it probably wasn’t even a message from Lestrade who was undoubtedly, unlike Mycroft, hard at work. He picked up the phone readying himself for disappointment, but it was Lestrade and Mycroft couldn’t prevent the most un-worklike grin that spread across his face as he read,

> What did I do?  
> GL

Mycroft replied at once,

> You exist in the world  
> MH

The reply came before Mycroft had finished fidgeting with the phone, when he wasn’t in anyway waiting for the reply, honestly,

> I find that amazingly flattering! <3 Is there any chance you’re free tonight?  
> GL

And then almost instantly another response:

> I hope you noticed the correct punctuation and everything  
> GL

The thing was that Mycroft had noticed the punctuation but also he had a very late meeting that evening, he paused, trying to frame a reply, doing mental rearrangements of his plans before he tapped out a response:

> I had noticed the punctuation; my turn to feel flattered. I can be free at 8.30 but not, I’m afraid, sooner than that. Would that be too late?  
> MH

Mycroft took a deep breath and put his phone down. This time he would make good on his determination to work for quarter of an hour. The phone buzzed with an incoming message very quickly but Mycroft managed to continue to work for the requisite time before he let himself look at it braced for certain disappointment,

> Don’t think I didn’t notice the semi-colon, you flash git :-)  
> 8.30 sounds great, I’ll be waiting at the Yard, we can pick up take-away and go to mine, what do you think?  
> GL

Mycroft was staggered. So few times had he been invited to someone’s home in a social capacity that he could clearly remember them all. Oh, he’d been asked in attempt to gain some advantage many, many time and had just as often refused. This seemed somehow more than any of the other invitations had been. He thought for a moment or two more and then cursed himself before tapping out a reply that made him feel giddy,

> That sounds like an excellent idea. I know a good Thai restaurant that does take away, it’s on the way. I will see you at 8.40 allowing for traffic  
> MH

 

It took all of Mycroft’s self-control to pay full attention to his meeting. He was, however strongly motivated to ensure that the meeting was brisk and business-like, and so it finished slightly earlier than he had let himself hope. He always kept a range of spare clothes at the office, but none were what anyone would call casual, of that he was certain and he found himself positively dithering in front of the small immaculate wardrobe, more than aware that he was being stupid worrying what to wear like a teenager on his first date, so he framed the question as he would any other dilemma: starting point, desired outcome, available resources. After a moment he concluded that the best he could manage was to leave his the off and loosen his collar and think about it no more. He did however, especially since he found he couldn't quite remember the last time he’d been seen in public tie-less and yet in a formal suit; it was perplexing. Still time was wasting away and he was going to meet Gregory and the very thought gave him a little bubbling adrenaline thrill; it came close to making him grin. Instead he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged into his jacket, then decided that the unbuttoned waistcoat was too much and buttoned it up again and headed to the door. There was no consolation he considered in no one knowing one was being an idiot.

When the car drew up, twenty-five yards down the street from where Greg was looking at his phone, leaning slightly on the wall, his body-language clearly showing the hard day’s work he’d put in, Mycroft allowed himself a few moments of sheer admiration. He looked tired, he looked like a man who had worked hard all day and at that the day had started early, but despite that there was a tension in his muscles that showed that he was ready to move incisively at an instant if that was what was required. He’d lost a little weight recently, probably when his wife finally left Mycroft thought, and it suited him, but, thought Mycroft he wouldn’t like him to lose too much more. Enough, he thought and leaned forward to speak to his driver,

“I should be back in a few moments; our next stop will be the Bow Thai and then on to the Detective Inspector’s flat. You’ll be free after that,” he swallowed and glanced away before he continued, “thank you.”

Mycroft got out of the car and began to walk over to Greg who put his phone away and looked up. Mycroft’s steps faltered slightly under Greg’s gaze, again unsure of his clothing and of what he was doing there. As he watched Greg pushed himself away from the wall and moved towards him, a grin on his face which he answered with a tentative smile of his own.

“Well,” Greg said, “look at you,” and it was clear that was exactly what Greg was doing as the man clearly ran his eyes from Mycroft’s head to his feet, his tongue between his lips with his smile turning distinctly lascivious, Mycroft knew that he was blushing, but didn’t look away or down so that when Greg had worked all the way back up to his face he could see his expression, one that he would have to categorise as admiration and possibly even lust, “all dressed down, unbuttoned but still with so many buttons to undo.” Mycroft blushed harder and knew that the flush on his skin must be visible even in the light from the street lamps above them, he even thought it might be visible to the surrounding CCTV cameras. He felt an overwhelming need to speak but could barely come up with anything to say that wouldn’t be horribly inappropriate and so instead he went for mundane,

“The car is over here,” but Greg interrupted,

“Does it have glass between the front and the back? Is the glass tinted?”

Mycroft was a little nonplussed by this question, but managed to stammer out an answer,

“Y... Yes, but why?”

Greg moved closer, and Mycroft realised that he wanted to whisper in his ear,

“Because, at the very least I want to thoroughly kiss you and I thought you'd be more comfortable if we didn't have spectators.”

Mycroft could not help the shiver of anticipation at those words and didn't try not to smile,

“Then let us proceed,” he said and turned to walk towards the car. It really was most terribly difficult to concentrate especially when Greg caught up to him, walking so closely that Mycroft could feel his body heat seeping through both of their jackets. He risked a sideways glance at Greg only to find that the detective inspector was doing the same thing. They both smiled, although Mycroft thought that grin might be a better term. Mycroft had an urge to speed up as he got nearer to the car and Greg matched him pace for pace until they were almost running when they got to there. Greg laughed as he quickly nipped ahead of Mycroft right before they got to the car,

“Beat you!” he said, “What’s my prize?”

The grin which split Lestrade’s face brought an answering smile from Mycroft despite the fact that he had no idea what to he should answer, not even idea of what the possible answers were. For a second Lestrade’s eyes went calculating and his grin faded very briefly changing to a smile that seemed to have all the kindness in the world and Greg spoke again,

“There really doesn’t have to be a prize, you know that, don’t you? You don’t owe me anything, you never owe anyone anything.” 

Mycroft was surprised to find that he was tearing up at this, such a simple thing for Greg to have said and yet something no one had ever said to him before. Mycroft cleared his throat slightly,

“Thank you and,” he paused and swallowed, “I’ll be thinking about your prize.”

They climbed into the car, which did indeed have a separator between the front and the back. Mycroft was glad he’d given the driver his instructions before as he slid along the seat to give Greg somewhere to sit. It was, he supposed, disappointing that Greg left a clear foot of space between them as they got settled but not surprising considering what he’d just said. With a sinking feeling and a slight worry that Greg was just making excuses, Mycroft realised that he was going to have to find a way to tell Greg that being kissed was something of which he was greatly in favour. Mycroft mentally formulated a number of ways of raising the subject, all more or less oblique so that he might be able to pretend that Greg had misunderstood if he had changed his mind, before he decided that he owed both himself and the detective inspector some honesty,

“I find that the idea of being kissed by you is very pleasing to me and if you wanted to consider that your…”

He was interrupted before he could finish what he was going to say by Greg sliding much closer to him and reached up to cup the side of Mycroft’s face, his thumb moving gently to stroke his cheekbone. He was so close to Greg now that when Greg spoke, even though it was a whisper Mycroft could hear him perfectly,

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long, are you sure it’s all right?”

“Please,” Mycroft began, but before he could say anything else Greg’s lips were brushing his and suddenly he had no idea what it was he had been going to say. 

It didn’t feel anything like the few other times he’d been kissed, it didn’t feel like a competition, it didn’t feel like an imposition or a chore, it just felt perfectly right. The feel of Greg’s lips on his, so very, very gentle and undemanding seemed to have made his entire nervous system start firing off all at once, he was both hot and had goose flesh and he couldn’t supress a shiver. And now he understood what he had seen so many times in films and on television and always found impossible to believe: he wanted to open his mouth to Greg, he wanted to get closer and closer to him, and when Greg’s tongue gently, so gently brushed his lips he did just that. So much sensation. It was overwhelming but not in the way that it had been the other times he’d been kissed. He hitched himself closer to Greg and knew that it was different because he wasn’t being kissed, he was kissing and that was a thing that made all the difference it seemed.

They reached the Bow Thai far to quickly for Mycroft’s taste, and he did think of perhaps telling the driver to go on but then he distinctly heard (and felt) Lestrade’s stomach rumbling,

“Sorry,” Lestrade murmured, “It’s been a long time since lunch,”

“Then let us by all means look to your sustenance,” Mycroft replied and opened the door. Lestrade followed him, and they entered the steamy heat of the takeaway. 

It wasn’t that Mycroft never ate takeaway, it was more that he usually had someone to pick it up for him and he normally ordered ahead to make the whole thing faster and more streamlined and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to be unhappy about this because it seemed that even mundane things and mundane things that interrupted kissing Greg, were made better by Greg being there. 

“What do you fancy?” Mycroft asked, looking at the large menu on the counter,

“Well,” Greg replied, “Can we get something quick and easy to eat?”

For a moment Mycroft was a little confused and then Greg continued, “And can we also get things that are good when warmed up?”

Mycroft blushed, not totally sure of the implications of what Greg had asked but hoping that he did understand he went to the counter and ordered Gai Pad King, Gai Pad Met Mamuang, Pad Pak Loo-um and Kow Niao Mamuang. He finished the order off with a considerable order of spring rolls.

“That should fit the bill,” he said to Greg, who smiled back at him,

“Could we get away with eating the spring rolls in the car?” he asked, “Or do you have rules about that kind of thing?”

“They’re more, guidelines,” Mycroft replied,

“We don’t tend to have those kind of rules, you should see the state of some of the cars used for staking people out,” he said, “After a couple of days they could be used to develop biological weapons! If I promise not to drop crumbs or wipe my fingers on the upholstery, can we eat the spring rolls in the car, I really don’t want to be distracted by being hungry when we get to my flat.”

Mycroft swallowed and looked directly at Greg, hoping that the man would be able to see what he thought about this idea in his eyes and replied,

“I’m sure you’ll be careful, Greg.”

 

Back in the car they sat with the takeaway in a carrier bag on the floor and the container of spring rolls between them on the seat, both turned half towards each other. Greg reached out and took one of the rolls, maintaining eye contact as he put the roll in his mouth and bit off the end very deliberately. Mycroft couldn’t take his eyes off him and continued to watch as Greg, well the only word was sucked, the rest of it into his mouth. After he’d finished the spring roll Greg grinned at him,

“Aren’t you going to eat?” ha asked, gesturing at the package between them and then reaching for another. Mycroft actually didn’t want to eat, what he wanted, very much, was to watch Greg eat but then he had the thought that he was perhaps (hopefully?) going to need to keep his strength up and he reached for the food. 

The spring rolls were delicious and Mycroft was aware that it was a little cruel to fill the car with such wonderful smells when they hadn’t bought food for the driver but it was only a passing thought which vanished from his mind when he got very distracted by watching Greg lick his fingers so as not to leave greasy finger prints. Greg noticed him noticing and grinned at him,

“Do you want me to do yours as well?” he asked. For a second Mycroft was ever so slightly repulsed but then very slowly and deliberately he put the last part of the spring roll he’d been eating in his mouth and then stretched out his hand towards Greg’s mouth. Greg gently grasped his wrist and drew Mycroft’s hand towards his mouth, and sucked Mycroft’s index finger into his mouth. Mycroft knew that he had blushed instantly scarlet and could not possibly have cared less. The feeling of Greg’s tongue swirling around his finger, probing the nail and then sweeping underneath to caress the pad of his finger and the slowly increasing suction pressure on the whole digit was by far the most arousing thing that had every happened to Mycroft and for the life in him he couldn’t stop it from putting other ideas into his head.

Greg slowly pulled off Mycroft’s first finger which slipped from his mouth with a pop before he dived in to capture the next, sucking more firmly this time, keeping Mycroft’s gaze except for a couple of brief glances down. Mycroft couldn’t help the hint of a groan that the warm, wet suction drew from him. It seemed to have been the thing for which Greg had been waiting as he chose that moment to let Mycroft’s finger slip from his mouth so that he could first grin and then speak,

“Eat up,” he said quietly the grin widening, “you’re going to need your energy later.”

“I will?” he asked,

“Oh, yes!”

 

It seemed to take an age to get to Greg’s flat. When they pulled up at the kerb outside the block, Mycroft glanced at Greg who was tidying up the remains of their ‘first course’ and then leaned forward to tap on the tinted glass partition. The driver wound it down,

“Thank you, Wolstenhome, I won’t be needing you again this evening and I’ll make my own way back, please make sure that everyone is stood down.”

“Right you are,” he replied and the partition slid back up.

Greg had everything secured but was looking at Mycroft with an odd expression. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question but it was clear with his next comment Greg did not want to ask the question or at least not here and now,

“Are you ready for the splendour of chez moi?” Greg asked and Mycroft could detect just the very slightest trace of either nerves or potential embarrassment and Mycroft wanted to save him that,

“I’m ready for you,” he replied with the very faintest of emphases on the word ‘you’. It was Lestrade’s turn to colour which was obvious even in the weird orange glare of the sodium street lighting filtering into the car.

They climbed out of the car, Greg refusing to let Mycroft carry the bag full of takeout, and Mycroft found himself looking about the building, identifying the CCTV cameras that they would be being caught by right at the second but most definitely not caring by whom and in what control room if any they were being watched.

Greg fumbled for his key and eventually got it enough under control despite the carrier bag to get them into the communal hallway. Mycroft expected him to go straight up the stairs and as a result he walked right into him, throwing out his hands to try and steady Greg. He needn’t have bothered, Greg was as solid and steady as a brick wall and Mycroft ended up with his palms flat against Greg’s chest, feeling that he must look like a 1940s starlet in a promotional still. It didn’t worry him for long as Greg spoke,

“God, I thought we’d never get here,” and with that he let the bag of takeaway slip to the floor to bring his arms up to curl around Mycroft and pull him down ever so slightly so that he could kiss him.

This wasn’t gentle or in any way restrained like the last time, this was passion and it stopped Mycroft from thinking and left him just feeling. Feeling strength, feeling softness, feeling hardness, feeling joy. Feeling like he never wanted this to stop. It did however, Greg disengaged and looked up at Mycroft with a face full of passion and of desire,

“I want you,” he murmured, “I want you right now,”

Mycroft almost didn’t understand the words and certainly didn’t think through his answer,

“What do you want?” he said, dimly realising that it had been a stupid thing to say. Greg didn’t take it that way,

“I want to go down on my knees for you and suck you until you come, I want you to bend me over any likely piece of furniture and bugger me senseless, I want you to bend me in half so that I can see your face when you come inside me. I want you anyway and every way.”

 

They found the takeaway late the following day, neatly picked up and put on the table with a note from Anthea to say that all Mycroft’s appointments had been rearranged.


End file.
